


Gone

by livelaughlove



Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Angst, Gen, Unique perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:51:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livelaughlove/pseuds/livelaughlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story showing the the Team's reaction to Lewis' death. After Leah joins the team but she isn't featured in the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 Week Gone

I sit in the corner booth of a busy diner watching a group of men at the bar. Most of them have only one drink in front of them but they seem not to need the drinks. At first, they seem to be just a group of friends out for the night but as I continue watching, I become more and more fascinated. They all sit with slumped shoulders and run their hands over their faces with increasing regularity as the night progresses. Their eyes flicker between everyone in the diner without seeming to, looking up whenever someone enters or exits. In between bursts of conversation, they sit in companionable silence.

My gaze eventually fixes on one of the younger men. His short, dark hair sticks up on end as if he's run his hand through it before. His dark t-shirt and jeans look rumpled, hanging lopsided off his slumped frame. I can't stop watching him. Maybe it's the way his gaze drops to his hands in between conversations. Maybe it's how his mischievous grin appears for only seconds and never reaches his eyes. He often doesn't join in the conversations but I can tell he's listening. He begins to spin an object around in his fingers, sparking concerned looks from his friends. One by one, they begin to leave, each of them patting him on the back or saying a few words to him before doing so. He gives them brief, tight smiles before dropping his gaze.

Finally, when the last of his friends have gone, he seems to let loose. He buries his face in his hands and heaves a sigh. He declines the bartender's offer of another drink, preferring to keep nursing the half-empty one he already has. As I keep watching him, he looks up and around the diner, catching my eyes before I can shift my gaze. The expression in his eyes strikes a chord within me and I find I have to look away. When I look back, he is gone.


	2. 6 Months Misery

I sit at the counter of a nearly empty bar. Several other people sit in shadowy corners, nursing various drinks. None of them hold my attention, except one. He was sitting, slumped over a table in the far corner. A few drinks sit empty on the table in front of him. His whole posture radiates exhaustion with his short, dark hair pushed back from his forehead in disarray. His face seems drawn and pale, with dark, bruise-like shadows under his eyes. His clothes hang wrinkled and stained off his frame. I can hardly bear to watch him but it's hard to look away. He slowly flips through a packet of papers on the table in front of him.

I flinch as tears slide down his cheeks as he reaches the end of the booklet. His cell phone ring, its cheery tone at odds with the gloomy atmosphere. He doesn't move to answer it. Closing the booklet, he pushes it roughly away, watching as it knocks over an empty glass before falling off the table. He rubs his face, brushing away the tears before reaching for his drink. He pauses, his drink suspended in the air as his cell phone rings again. His mouth forms a soundless swear before he answers. He doesn't speak other than to tell the caller the location of the bar. He sighs heavily once he hangs up and half-halfheartedly begins to arrange the empty glasses into neat rows. He glances towards the door repeatedly, as if he is considering running for it. Minutes later, an extremely worried looking older man rushes into the bar and bee-lines it straight for the corner. The younger man's sullen look crumples as his friend speaks to him and gets up to leave without complaint. He doesn't glance back at the packet of papers on the floor of the bar. The older man ushers him out the door, allowing a brief finger of sunlight to light the room. Through the window, I see the two men climb into an SUV, roaring off onto the street. I walk over to the table where the man sat and crouch to pick up the papers from the stained floor. There is no title, just a date – September 25th, 2009. I open the papers and begin to read.


	3. 1 Year Acceptance

I walked slowly between the rows of graves, carrying a bouquet of flowers to lie on her grave. I'd seen a few people visiting passed friends and family and I bowed my head in respect to them. But he was different. His voice was a low murmur as he tilted his head back, sunlight playing across his closed eyes. As the light wind ruffled his dark hair, his body relaxed, shoulders sinking beneath his grey uniform. A small smile crossed his lips and he sighed softly. I moved forward, hidden behind the trailing branches of the willow tree. This was wrong – to listen to something so personal but I couldn't help myself. His peaceful expression, the way he was just content to sit and listen to the wind convinced me that this was an important moment for him. I couldn't disrupt it. Gazing out over the cemetery, he began to speak,

"I miss you buddy. Nothing's the same without you here. For such a long time, it felt like all the sunlight was gone from the world. It still feels that sometimes. Did you know it rained when we buried you? The world cried with us. We lost more than just a teammate," he paused and ran his fingers gently over the stone in front of him, "We lost…I lost a best friend. So many things remind me of you. I haven't been able to play a prank since that day. It just doesn't feel right doing it on my own. Pretty sad, I know. But it's still too raw. Thank god we didn't have a bomb call that first year. It's still hard to deal with now. The whole team gets the flashbacks; I can tell. I still get nightmares. Land mines - who the hell uses land mines?"

Taking a ragged breath, he ran his hand over his face. "The team hasn't been the same since…since that day." As he spoke, he unconsciously played with a slim black band on his wrist. A beam of sunlight caught and reflected off a small plague attached to it.

"Greg's been quieter. He took it really hard. He's lost team members before but this was different. There was nothing he could do to stop it, to prevent it. He's mom, y'know? He took all the blame on his shoulders. You should've seen Ed those first few months. I don't often say this, but he was scary. The first hot call, he had one of the guy's buddies and for a minute, I was sure he was about to beat the snot out of him. Wordy stepped in and he was okay after that. You know that cold look he used to get sometimes? He wears that all the time now. It took him months to start joking around again." He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Sam took it the best, which isn't saying much. Now that he's back home, he never expected to lose another friend to a goddamn land mine. He never had that moment of denial. He knew, from the minute you said you had stepped on it. He knew what was coming. He really reverted back to the 'soldier' for a few months after that. He's doin' okay now." He chuckled, "I'm sure he and Jules helped each other out then. Jules though..."

The smile dropped from his face and he glanced down, plucking blades of grass, running them through his fingers, "I'd never seen her cry before. I never want to again. She's so tough but she completely broke down. Especially when...; it was heartbreaking – if I'd been aware enough to see it. Your funeral was another story. Wordy's been wonderful. He was the one we all turned to. Even Ed and Greg. I can't tell you how many nights I spent at his house, just talking. He was really broken up but he was the one who held us all together. Thank God Shelley didn't give him a hard time about coming back to the team; she knew he needed us."

He paused and looked around the cemetery. I ducked back behind the tree as his eyes glanced over where I was standing. I peeked back out a few minutes later when his voice started again,

"We're all getting better. It's slowly getting easier. We have a new girl now. Nothing on you but she's not too bad. Sam's glad not to be the rookie anymore." A strong gust of wind pushed him slightly backward and he gave a half-hearted grin, "Me? I'm getting there. I broke down about 6 months to the day. Greg had to come find me; if you can believe it, I was sitting in a bar. Getting wasted doesn't help I'll have you know. The ever-present family drama is getting worse – but what else is new, eh? I'll get through it. I'll never forget the nights you let me camp out on your sofa when it got bad. You'll always be my best friend."

He fell silent, one hand resting gently on the stone, simply watching the wind rustle through the grass and feeling the sun on his face. I was touched. After all the pain he'd been through, this man still took the time to come visit his friend. I knew what the right thing was to do. Pulling a rose from the bouquet I'd brought, I stepped out into the bright sunshine. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps. The sun highlighted his face and shone in his eyes. I smiled softly as I held out the flower to him and he favoured me with a smile in return. Taking the flower, he gently ran his fingers over the petals before laying it beside the stone. As I turned away, the words engraved on the stone caught my eye:

_Lewis Mark Young_

_March 7, 1977 - September 25, 2009_

_Forever Keeping the Peace_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end folks. Unless of course I get a brainwave. Unlikely though. I know this is a different format than the others but I got a plot bunny and I have to admit, I'm pleased with it. I don't own Flashpoint.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a descriptive writing exercise in my creative writing class in high school.


End file.
